A New Friend
by KnightFury
Summary: A handwritten letter arrives, bringing with it old memories and a new offer of friendship. Set during season one of the series.
1. A Curious Letter

I sit at the window, watching the rain. I am aware that it would often rain in the London of my own era, but it never felt so constant or dreary then. Today in particular, it seems to me as if the sun may never shine again; just as I feel that I might never smile again. On a miserable morning such as this, I cannot even look at my breakfast, preferring instead to help myself to a second cup of morning tea.

"The postman has been, Holmes," my robotic companion announces, upon entering the room, as if I could not have seen or heard as much from my seat. How many times must I remind Watson that I am neither deaf nor blind?

"Has he?" I respond sarcastically. "Been where, precisely, before coming to our door?"

He should be grateful that I do not share the deplorable sense of humour that I have witnessed in some of our colleagues of New Scotland Yard. I am sure that my response could have been much worse, had I so desired it to be.

The brows of the robot's electromask knit together while its brown eyes scrutinise me for a long moment. "Is something wrong?"

I gaze back at him in the same manner, as if I suspect him of malfunction. "No. Of course not."

"You look utterly miserable, old boy - and, if I might say so, a little on the sulky side; like a young boy that has been told off."

I shrug my shoulders and turn away with a dismissive wave of my hand. I am not in the mood.

"Perhaps the post will provide something of interest, hum? Shall I leave your letters on the sideboard?"

It is wrong of me to treat him in this manner. I regret the way in which I treated my dear friends from my own era; yet here I sit, behaving just as badly, as if I felt no remorse at all. Perhaps the reason why Providence has allowed for me to be restored without my companion of old is a simple one - I never treated him as I should and have proved time and again that I do not deserve his love or support. If this is just what I deserve, I should accept it and be grateful for what I do have.

I turn to my friend with outstretched hand. "Forgive me, Watson. You are indeed right; could I have a look at those letters, please?"

He raises his eyebrows at the usage of the word 'please' but hands them over without comment.

The first envelope is of an excellent quality and the return address informs me that it has been sent out by my bank. The paper statements (which I only am due to receive once a year) are not of the same quality and it is not the end of the tax year. This is some sort of an advertisement. Dull! I set it aside.

The second is a bill for my portable telephone service. I pay my bills by computer! Why the deuce would the company send me a paper copy? I should check that, but I am not in the mood. That is also set aside, but separate from the rubbish.

The third envelope does arrest my attention - the address has been written by hand! In the age of computers and mail merges, it seems strange indeed.

"Perhaps this is a letter from a very poor prospective client," Watson remarks.

I shake my head as I test the weight of the paper. "I think not. This is no cheap stationery."

"Well, then, what do you make of it?"

"I make nothing of it," is my retort, while I set my letter opener upon the envelope in question. "I suppose the sender's printer might be broken, or else the envelope could be too thick to go through said printer; the explanation could well be mundane."

It is not. The letter does not, as it happens, bring a case in its wake. However, it is also handwritten and not without interest (even if the sender is a little too free with his commas):

 _Dear Mr. Holmes,_

 _Please forgive me, for writing to you in this way, but I heard that you'd been brought back to life, and I've spent months, trying to decide whether I should write to you, or not._

 _It's probably ridiculous of me, but I've decided to use my best handwriting, instead of the more sensible idea, of using the computer, because, I thought, it might be a welcome change for you._

 _Anyway, the point of my writing to you: You were friends with my ancestor, who had the same name, and you helped him, once. I thought you might like to know, you were always fondly remembered, and that I'd always wished I could have met you. I'll understand if it never comes to that, but, I thought, I could at least offer you a chance, to talk._

 _My family returned to England, from Australia, in the middle of the last century, and I've got a summer place in Norfolk. I was born here, and, I think, I'm happier here than I'd ever be abroad, or even anywhere else, in England. There's plenty of room here, if you want to stay, for a few days, or longer. If you ever want a holiday, that is._

 _I don't really know what else to write, because you've, probably, got so many questions, and here I am, going off on tangents, but it's hard for me to imagine what you might think is most important._

 _Your friend's descendent,_

 _Victor Trevor_

I must confess that I feel somewhat dumbfounded. Victor Trevor had a family, before he died - a family that he told of me! A family that remembers me still. Through slightly moist eyes, I reread his letter before handing it to my robotic companion.

"What are you going to do?" Watson asks of me, in a tone which - it seems to me - holds an underlying note of jealousy in it.

I have already pounced upon the chair in front of my videophone. With surprise, I turn to regard my friend. "I intend to call him, naturally. There was - I believe - a telephone number provided."

"Humph. Naturally," says he, as he hands back the letter.

"Have you ever visited Norfolk?" I ask my friend. "It is - or was (it may have changed dramatically, since I saw it last) - vast and flat, with windmills everywhere. The easiest way to get about was always by water, though there is - was - a railway line. It might be interesting to see it again - though, of course, it could also be somewhat depressing. I should be glad of your company, should you be so good as to kindly join me."

It would appear that I have said just the right thing, for the robot immediately dispenses with his hurt attitude and smiles, before saying that he would be glad to assist me if he can. Does he not know what a comfort he is to me?

"Thank you, Watson," is all that I can say. I am still too stoic to voice more than that.

The fellow that answers his telephone and gazes at me from the screen before me does bear an uncanny resemblance to my old friend of my youth. His eyes and hair are a slightly different colour and his face is a slightly different shape, but the resemblance is still plain to see. My Victor Trevor could have been his father!

"Victor? Victor Trevor?"

He frowns. "Um. Who are you? I'm not going to buy anything."

"Splendid! I am not trying to sell anything. I have just read your letter and felt compelled to respond at once. I hope that it is not too early."

He looks mortified as he hastily covers a yawn. "Oh. Sorry. I had a late night. Does this mean... are you Sherlock Holmes?"

I nod once. "And you are Victor Trevor, descendent of my friend, of the same name?"

The bright smile which illuminates the screen before me is confirmation enough, without the excited head nodding that accompanies it.

"Excellent! Thank you for writing to me. I never heard much from my old friend, after he moved to Australia, but I did often think of him. How much do you know about him?"

"I know he did well in Australia - set up his own business, worked hard, fell in love, married, started a family. You know."

Indeed I do.

"I could probably tell you more, if you give me time. I could see if I can find any old family documents..."

Interested though I am, I would not want to put my new friend to any trouble. "I am just glad to hear that my old friend did well. He was... He was very good to me, during our college days; I was sorry to lose touch with him."

Watson snorts behind me and then decides to attempt to conceal it with a noise that sounds as if it is supposed to be a sneeze. Why on Earth does he expect me to be fooled by that? Can a robot even sneeze, to begin with? I shall have to ask him what the matter is, later.

"Is the family business still running?"

He nods. "Yes, but by a different branch. My father set up his own business and I work with him; we're in industrial forensics."

"Ah! You might prove to be a useful fellow to know. Forensics play rather a big role in my work, as I expect you can imagine."

He grins. "My offer still stands; you're welcome to come join us for a weekend. If you like. One of the neighbours has a farm with stables. I think you used to ride."

He is winning me over. I was not feeling at all like visiting, this morning - or even getting out of bed - but the thought of getting back into a saddle appeals to my sentimental streak. I wonder if Norfolk has changed as much as London.

"Do you mean to say that you want to go all the way to Norfolk?" Watson asks, somewhat incredulously, when I end the call.

"Yes," I respond with annoyance. "Why the blazes not?"

He shrugs. "I thought that you were in a bad mood."

How can I tell him (without upsetting him) that I am always in a bad mood? I miss my Watson. This robot is rather like him, in some ways, but all the same he is more like the doctor's own self portrait, from his stories, but clumsier.

"Holmes? I sometimes wonder what goes on, inside of that mind of yours. Are you listening?"

I permit myself a slow blink and turn my gaze upon him. "I am thinking of horses - of riding. I am thinking of a place that I used to love more than my childhood home. I am thinking that fresh air might improve my appetite and raise my spirits. What are you thinking about?"

He pats my arm. "You are right, of course."

"Of course. Now, would you like to help me to pack? Oh! And see that you remember your charger."

The chirped response assures me that I have successfully cheered him.


	2. Arrival in Norfolk

Norfolk does look different to me. I am sure that many of the windmills are gone from the landscape, just as I feared. There are new roads (well, roads that did not exist in my day, anyway) and houses have sprung up where once was field and grass. However, for all the changes that I can see, the broad waterways are still surrounded by tall reeds, wildflowers and grassland. It is mostly unspoilt, for 22nd Century England.

As we approach Trevor's summertime home and prepare to park, a hawk passes our car on broad wings, calling to mind warm, lazy afternoons spent watching them in bygone days. What were they? Trevor knew. I wonder whether his descendent also knows.

"Are you glad to be back in Norfolk?" Watson enquires.

"Yes. Somewhat apprehensive, all the same - supposing this new friend and I have nothing in common?"

He shrugs. "Then we need not stay. You and I shall return to Baker Street and forget all about it."

I frown at my companion. This is the very first time that I have suspected him of envy. "Watson, need I remind you that you had many friends?"

"No. You need not remind me."

"Well, why do you feel that I should not have any friends, aside from yourself?" I persist.

He turns his brown-eyed gaze upon me. "You have human friends - Lestrade, the Irregulars..."

"The Irregulars are not in either of my age groups and Lestrade is a woman - as is Deirdre. I need some human male companionship that is closer to my age."

"And I am not good enough."

I groan at his retort. "This is not about you! Of course I value your friendship - you should not have reason to question that. I simply... I feel that it is wrong to depend upon you as much as I do. Good God, Watson! Must I explain this to you? You would socialise with other men - I never once implied that I felt hurt or left out. Did I?" I hope that I did not! Did I?

"No. You simply told me that nobody could possibly care about me as you do. Which proved to be quite correct, when Mary died, if what I wrote in my journals was accurate."

"That few people understand grief, or know how best to... to comfort a chap, when he is suffering, does not mean that they care not a jot."

The robot meets my gaze. "You never said that they cared not a jot," he reminds me. "Now, shall we go and meet this friend's descendent of yours?"

"I am not setting foot inside the house with an unhappy friend. We have to sort this out first."

Again he shrugs. "If you want."

"Watson, I shall confess - just this once - that I was never above jealousy. I could count on one hand the friendships - the true, wholesome friendships - that I experienced in my past life. I am not as eloquent as you, but I want you to know that your support was always the most valuable. You are the friend that I cannot lose."

My Watson - my flesh and blood Boswell - is already lost to me until I rejoin him, but I still have a part of him beside me. To lose this compudroid would be to lose him completely and I could not face that - however painful it might be to live with the reminder of my dearest friend every day.

"I shall try to remember that. Thank you, Holmes."

That is at least a start. "I am sure that you were never so insecure before, so as to experience jealousy; what has brought this on?"

He looks away for a moment. "I am a robot; few people see me as anything more than a lump of metal."

How stupid of me! I touch his arm. "Watson. I shall never see you as a lump of metal - never! Have you not already proved, time and again, that you are more than that?"

"That is very easy to say now, when you still have very few friends. Supposing you befriend other colleagues from the Yard, aside from Lestrade?"

"Why do you doubt me?" I ask of him. "Must I remind you that the world has always been filled with short-sighted imbeciles, that are unable to see past the ends of their noses? Do you recall the foolish King of Bohemia? You were most certainly human, when you met him, yet his treatment of you was worse than some of the attitudes of men of this era."

He smiles at the memory. "You were rather short with him."

"I do not suffer fools, Watson. Besides, you still put many human beings to shame, you know. I shall always be proud to call you my friend."

The expression with which he now gazes at me tells me that he might cry, had he tear-ducts. "Thank you."

Indeed, his voice is full of emotion, as well.

"Are you all right?"

My friend sniffs and rubs a hand across his eyes. "Yes, Holmes."

Robots are not meant to experience emotion and I rarely - if ever - saw my staunch Boswell like this. I know not quite what I should say or do.

"I am glad that I am not driving," says he with a self-depricating grimace. "It is a good job that you waited until we had parked."

We share a moment of laughter, which expels some of the tension surrounding us. Thank goodness for that!

"Shall we meet our new friend?" I ask of him, permitting a lopsided smile to tug at my lips.

He nods with a deep breath. "I am ready, if you are."

Together, we leave the car on the muddy track leading to a large house.

"Rather grand," I remark. "Are you sure that this is right, Watson?"

"Really, Holmes! I have inbuilt GPS - as does the car. Do you really suppose that we could both have made a mistake?"

I shrug and attempt to kick the mud from my boots. "Perhaps. If the satellites that you both rely upon were incorrect."

He laughs. "I do not recall such a thing ever occurring. Satellites have been in use for centuries - they are perfectly reliable. Really, Holmes! You can be perfectly absurd, you know."

"Thank you, Watson. Well, the house is still nothing that I was expecting - and it is not just the grandeur. It looks like a modern take on an older property."

"Perhaps the original building had to come down," my companion reasons.

"Perhaps," I respond. "But even then, surely some of the original house would be in evidence."

He huffs quietly. "Are you going to ring the bell, or would you rather stay out here all day? We both know that you are only putting the meeting off - courage, old boy."

I never should have confessed my vulnerability to him - I never would have done so before, so why the deuce should I decide to do so now? With a shake of my head, a calming breath and a squaring of my shoulders, I ring the bell.

The sound of the doorbell does not carry as far as the front door. I stand somewhat uncomfortably on the doorstep, Watson just behind me with our luggage. Was this a good idea? I am not like Watson - I do not make friends easily.

Just as I am beginning to think that it might not be too late to return to the car and make a hasty retreat, the door opens.

"Mr. Holmes! It's great to see you. Come on in. You too, Doctor Watson - Holmes did say that you'd be coming too. My father's away on business, but he should be back before tomorrow evening. Can I take one of those bags, Doctor? No? Well, let me show you to the guest room, then."

Despite my having told Trevor that Watson is a robot, he has had a twin room prepared for us, as if he expects my friend to require a place to sleep.

The compudroid thanks him warmly for the kindness but explains that he usually charges in the kitchen, as he suspects that the light thrown out by charging process (not to mention the humming) would disturb my slumbering.

Trevor looks rather embarrassed. "Oh! Of course. Well, the house robots do have a room that they use for recharging, if you're happy to join them, or else I could have another guest room set aside for you."

"I shall be happy to join your robots, if there is room," he replies. "I would not want to put you to any trouble on my account."

"It's no trouble at all, Doctor. I'd like to think that we'll all be friends, by the time you go home." Trevor then turns to me. "And is this room suitable for you, Mr. Holmes?"

"Perfectly, thank you," I respond, as Watson sets the bags down between the two beds, ready to begin unpacking.

Our new friend beams at me. "Can I get you anything?"

A cup of tea would be just the ticket and I say as much.

"He seems very pleasant," the compudroid notes, once we are alone. "Is he very much like your old friend, Holmes?"

"It is difficult to say," I confess. "It has been such a long time, you understand. But he does have a very honest face - he is likeable."

He snorts and then "coughs" into his fist.

"Have you caught a computer virus?" I inquire ironically, with a raised eyebrow. I have known my robotic companion to cough while in a room full of smoke and surrounded by coughing humans, but I would put that down to mass hysteria, or something of that sort. This is different. Besides, I suspect this to be an act.

"A tickle in my throat, Holmes. It is nothing."

I frown at him. "You are a robot, Watson - you do not have a throat. Would you care to try again?"

He grumbles quietly. "You should go and get to know your new friend, while I unpack."

"Come and join me," I request. "Trevor's robots can do the unpacking. Come, Watson."

He looks less than enthusiastic but follows all the same. Is it possible that he is even more nervous than I have been? I offer him a reassuring smile and touch his arm. Trevor would appear to be making quite an effort, which most likely means that he is also somewhat nervous and anxious that all goes well. He seems pleasant enough and I am quite sure that all will be well.


	3. Guided Tours

Tea is taken on the terrace, overlooking the water of the Broads. It is not as quiet as I had anticipated, as little pleasure boats chug up and down frequently. However, they do not spoil the peace - there are small birds singing pleasantly and hawks (marsh harriers, Watson tells me, after making one of Scotland Yard's computers run an image search for him - and, yes, I am aware that that is improper use of Scotland Yard's property), like the one that I saw upon arrival, are hunting above the reeds and water. I am glad that they have not vanished.

The sunshine is warm and fresh - a welcome change from London's fog and rain! - and I find myself becoming a little drowsy. Needless to say, I resist the temptation to doze in the afternoon sun, but I can see that my sudden desire to sleep is not lost on Watson, for the robot is keeping a close eye on me.

"Are you interested in sport?" Trevor enquires of us both, when the tea things have been cleared away and we have been silently watching the harriers for half an hour or so. "There's croquet, cricket..."

I shake my head. "Thank you, but I am only really interested in fencing and boxing."

"And horse riding," Watson adds. "And shooting."

I frown at him. "I am not going to disturb the peace. Why the deuce did you mention shooting?"

He shrugs. "I remember that you used to enjoy practising - in our sitting room, of all places, sometimes. I was not suggesting that you should set up a shooting range out here, however."

Good! I am trying to make a good impression. Is he doing his utmost to show me up?

Trevor settles down again. "Just as long as you aren't bored," says he. "I know you can become bored quite easily."

Clearly, this fellow has done his research. "I used to. Retirement put paid to that, I fear - had I not adapted to old age and infirmity, I should have gone mad."

"Yes, I suppose so. I don't know what I'll do, when I'm old and tired out."

I smile. "Oh, you shall find something to occupy yourself - if I could survive retirement, you can do it." I am not going to tell him that I did not last long after Watson passed - that is private - as is the matter of my not yet knowing just how much longer I can go on in his absence. That I have friends that care about me is undeniable, but I still painfully miss my Boswell and I cannot see that ever changing. But, for now, I feel much better than I did this morning.

"I've had a word with my neighbour, by the way; he did say he'd be happy to loan you a horse, but asked if you could put off calling round until tomorrow."

That is fine and I say as much with a smile. I shall look forward to it.

"Of course, it hadn't crossed my mind that Doctor Watson would be too heavy for a horse," Trevor admits apologetically. "What would you like to do to amuse yourself, Doctor?"

Bravo, Trevor! Excellent! Perhaps dear old Watson will be more himself, if he does not feel neglected. Now might prove to be a good moment to excuse myself and leave them talking man to man (in a manner of speaking) for five minutes.

"Trevor -"

"My favourite hobby is cooking," Watson is saying. "But I suppose I could fish - I have not enjoyed a fishing holiday in far too long!"

"Why don't I show you around?" Trevor suggests, before I can say another word. "I could get the old boat out - it's still the best way to see the Broads - and show you the best fishing spots."

Watson is enthusiastic, so I decide against voicing the excuse which had been perched on the very tip of my tongue and instead we follow our new friend in the direction of his boathouse.

The boat is a little cruise craft by the name of 'Swallows' - it looks to me as if it was built at the turn of the last century. While we are still moored in the boathouse, Watson and I are given a tour of it and assured that we are welcome to borrow it, should we ever want a holiday on the water.

"Two modest bedrooms to the rear, as you see," says Trevor. "A bit old fashioned, these days, but very comfortable."

"Quite," I nod as I sit on the little bunk that stands before the window of the room which our friend has shown us into. I am tempted to explore a bit myself, if only to find a place to freshen up, but I do not wish to seem impolite.

Trevor takes a seat beside me on the narrow bed. "Are you feeling OK? You're a bit quiet and you don't look too happy."

"A reaction to nerves, most likely," Watson suggests helpfully, causing me to address him with an icy glare. "That will sometimes make Holmes feel sick."

As it happens, he is probably right - in a way (I am not feeling sick) - but I am not going to say as much.

Trevor touches my arm. "Can I do anything for you?"

"I am perfectly well," I assure him. "I am just a bit tired, I suppose - my work keeps me as busy as it always has."

He smiles warmly. "You're welcome to rest here for a bit, if you like; I'll wake you when we've moored."

How kind he is! "Thank you, Trevor, but I have no desire to be impolite. If I could just freshen up, I am sure that I shall be all right again."

"Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't think of that. There's a little shower room, but nothing for you to change into and probably only a hand towel on board. But there is a little WC with a wash basin..."

He shows me into a tiny little washroom right to the rear of the boat and ensures that everything that might be required is provided. He and Watson then walk away in the direction of the front of the craft, leaving me to close and lock the door before I tend to myself. Through the closed door, I hear the compudroid inform our host that I can be 'a bit shy' about asking for the use of the lavatory. Wretched robot! He clearly is trying to cause me embarrassment!

When I join Watson and Trevor in the sitting room, to the very front of the boat, our new friend comes to my side. "You are OK, aren't you?"

I assure him that I am.

"I know we don't know each other very well, just yet, but you really don't have to worry so much," says he. "I wouldn't have minded, if you'd asked to use the loo."

I lower my gaze to the floor whilst calmly wishing that I could strangle Watson the wretched robot. "In my day, it was dreadfully impolite - even if I had desired to be so impertinent, I could never do so. It goes against everything that I am, for I am a Victorian gentleman."

He grimaces and rubs at the back of his neck. "That must be awkward for you - and uncomfortable. In that case, I'll try to remember to give you a chance, now and again, to get away and have a moment to yourself. That way, you won't have to worry about excusing yourself. I'll also see that I give you a tour of the house, when we go back, so that you can find your way about easily."

I thank him - and I am grateful, for I do realise that the attitude must seem bizarre to the men of this century - but I should still quite like to hurt Watson.

He touches my arm sympathetically. "Are you ready for the tour?"

The robot is eager to drive and Trevor is kind enough to submit to his wishes after a brief tutorial. "The most important thing is to watch the wash made by the boat," says he. "There are a lot of rare and protected birds and animals here and their nests and burrows could be destroyed, if the waves are too high. That's why there's a speed limit that never exceeds six miles per hour, on the Broads."

"Would you like to help me to cast off, seeing as Watson is going to steer?" he then asks, turning to me. "Do you know your way around boats?"

I used to, though the last boat that I had any control of was still powered by steam - and I tell him as much.

"Do you know how to cast off?"

I do indeed and I willingly jump back onto the boards of the boathouse in order to untie the ropes securing the rear of the craft, while Trevor unites the front. The moment that the back is free and the boat beginning to drift, I leap back aboard, rope in hand - much to the alarm of my friend, who is already standing on the deck of 'Swallows'.

"I thought you were going to end up in the water," he scolds. "I already said that there's no change of clothes on board and I really don't want you catching cold."

"I rarely catch colds and clumsiness is not a trait of mine," I reply with a careless shrug, as I coil and stow the ropes. "Besides, the weather is really very pleasant."

He frowns at me. "Please, Mr. Holmes, I really would be upset if anything went wrong - I want you to enjoy yourself. Please be a bit more careful."

I agree to his request - and even go so far as to grip the rail, when Watson starts the motor, even though my balance is as perfect as always.

"Thanks. Come on, we should wash our hands, after touching the ropes. We can rejoin the doctor, then."

When I last had a tour of the Norfolk Broads, it was by rowing boat. This craft is certainly much easier to steer - Watson is having no difficulty at all - and it is also very much quicker, despite the speed limit of four to six miles per hour.

Trevor enjoys pointing out the best fishing spots, while I sit upon the settee beside him and enjoy the gentle breeze coming in through the open floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the sitting room and ruffling his hair and mine as we chug along.

"Are either of you hungry?" our friend enquires suddenly. "There's a good restaurant coming up, on the left."

What with the (slightly chilly) breeze and the sweetness of the country air (and, perhaps, my improved mood), I am starving! I have scarcely ate in two days and was unable to face my breakfast. I admit to feeling 'a bit peckish'.

Watson makes a strange noise and then quietly coughs into his fist. I am beginning to think that this is a new means of voicing displeasure.

"Do you eat, Doctor Watson?" asks Trevor.

"As I am a robot and do not need food, no. I might be glad of some oil, however."

Our friend's face falls. "I'm sorry. I keep forgetting. You just seem so human. I mean... I don't mean it like that. I mean... you're nothing at all like my house robots."

Watson snorts, attempts to conceal it with a sneeze and then pulls in towards the jetty, outside of the restaurant that Trevor mentioned without a word. I most definitely need to give him another talking to - this behaviour will not do.


	4. Rough Waters

Watson is well behaved while Trevor and I eat (thank goodness), but very quiet. He gives me the impression - however much I may try to dismiss it - that he is sulking. It is rather a cheek, if sulking he is, given his recent behaviour; never-the-less, I shall let him be for now and have a chat with him privately, later.

"Are you OK, Doctor Watson?" Trevor asks, when our plates have been taken away and we are awaiting the arrival of strawberries, cream and scones - along with a second large pot of tea. "You're very quiet and I've noticed that you've been coughing and sneezing rather a lot."

The robot's reaction is to gaze rather frostily back at our new acquaintance and to set his shoulders in what I perceive to be a threatening manner.

"Watson," I touch his arm in the hope that I might placate him. "That you are not yourself is plain to see. Trevor was only voicing the question that I have not yet asked: what the deuce ails you?"

He shrugs his shoulders and refuses to meet my gaze. I note that his face is flushed - ha! Now he is the one that is embarrassed and it serves him right!

"Are you feeling hot?" Trevor now asks.

The compudroid grumbles something that I cannot hear above the music and chatter going on around us but does not make a reply.

"Watson, would you prefer to discuss this when we are back aboard the boat?" I enquire, realising that I should not wish to discuss my own health in a room filled with strangers, myself.

He meets my gaze with a thunderous expression. "I would prefer not to discuss it at all, if you do not mind."

Does this mean that he is unwell? That might explain his strange behaviour - at least in part. "My dear chap, as your friend, I need to know if there is something wrong. Your behaviour has been odd and I am concerned."

Trevor stands. "I think I'll go to the loo. Will you excuse me?"

Does he have to tell us why he should like to be excused? "Yes, of course, Trevor."

Watson waits until he is gone and then frowns at me, looking hurt. "I did try to tell you that I had a tickling in the throat - you did not believe me."

"Forgive me, old chap, but that explanation made little sense to me. You certainly cannot catch cold - and a good thing it is, too; summer colds can be particularly unpleasant - were it at all possible, you would most assuredly have contracted the miserable influenza that managed to so knock me for six."

He shrugs. "I know that, Holmes. I cannot explain it - I do not try to explain it."

"Would you like to go home?"

"No. Thank you. I can see that you are enjoying yourself. I shall be all right."

I pat his arm. "Let me know, should you feel worse. Perhaps you merely need a service - you have not had one since you came to live with me at Baker Street, aside from the occasional repair."

He fidgets and turns his gaze to his hands. "At the risk of sounding ridiculous, I do not relish the thought of having strangers looking at my circuits or programs. They might change something that makes me... me."

"I shall accompany you, if you would like."

"Very well. I shall go the moment that we return to London, if you want me to, but I would rather not discuss my inner workings with your acquaintance."

What cheek! "Yes, well, perhaps now you understand how I feel."

"Really, Holmes! That is entirely different - I would discuss my health with a bloody engineer! You, however, will not even discuss your health or requirements with a doctor, let alone a concerned friend."

I glare coldly at him. "I was always taught that it is not polite to complain and that one is not to discuss such things with all and sundry, that is all. Particularly not..." I wave a hand in the vague direction of the establishment's provided facilities. "Certain workings of the body."

"Sorry, Holmes."

I should damned well hope so!

"I simply cannot understand why you would try to ignore a discomfort until it becomes unbearable," says he. "What good does it do? Besides, you did tell me that the consequences can be terribly messy, during a moment of panic - hardly a risk that I would expect you to want to take, what with your level of cleanliness."

"Would you please at least keep your voice down?" I growl at him. "Have you no concept of good manners at all?"

He shrugs. "I am only trying to understand you."

It is my turn to shrug, for how can I explain to him that I have been taught to control myself from an early age, in a manner which would seem barbaric in this day and age? How can I make him understand that I was expected to put up with the discomfort and to simply concentrate my mind upon something else entirely - to simply not think about it - and to wait until I was excused? I am not supposed - was never expected - to be unable to do so, at my current age, when I was trained to do so as a young child.

I do at least remind him (very quietly) that the 'moment of panic' to which he was kind enough to refer occurred when I was dreadfully unwell and he had failed to understand the urgency of the situation. I would not usually have disclosed such information and would prefer not to be reminded of it - let alone forced to discuss it - now, or at any other time. He apologises with a huff and falls silent again.

Trevor returns the moment that the tea, strawberries and scones (with cream and jam, naturally) arrive. Clearly, he only made himself scarce in order to permit Watson and I a moment alone to talk privately - most likely, this was his reason for telling us where he was supposedly going. I must thank him - later. Preferably after Watson has gone off to charge, when the two of will be able to talk without upsetting him.

"Sorry about that," our friend says quietly, upon resuming his seat. "These strawberries look delicious, don't they? I wonder if they're locally grown."

The two of us set to and soon polish off the cream tea. It is delicious!

"Are those scones as good as mine, Holmes?" our robotic friend enquires.

I chuckle as I wipe cream from my fingers. "Almost, dear boy. Almost."

He smiles back at me cheerfully. Perhaps he is feeling better, now. Or, perhaps, he was feeling left out and attention-seeking - is that possible? It might explain why the mention of a service being overdue was enough to persuade him to desist.

As we humans are squabbling over the bill (our friend is insisting that he should pay, while I would like to at least pay for some of the meal), Trevor's phone chimes.

"Oh!" he gasps, upon reading the message. "The butler's asking if we're on our way back, yet. He says it looks as if a storm's blowing in from the coast - we really ought to get back. Here, take the keys and get aboard 'Swallows' - I'll be right behind you."

Watson insists that I get aboard and turn the heating on, for the sky has indeed clouded over and the chill breeze is whipping up into a fierce wind. He says that he shall cast off, as he will not become chilled should he be caught in the rain.

"Do not cast off without Trevor," I warn him. "Or else I shall have Lestrade take you back to London forthwith."

He stares at me. "I am hurt that you would think that I am capable of even contemplating such a thing, Holmes."

What with the behaviour that I have witnessed in him today, I would not put it past him. But I shall do as he suggests and await the return of Trevor in the warm.

By the time Trevor has joined Watson, the rain has begun to fall. Never-the-less, he still insists upon assisting our friend in casting off and stowing the ropes. Apparently, he feels that it should always be a two man job.

While I have been awaiting the return of my friends, I have indeed found out how to turn the heating on. I have also removed the rugs from the bedrooms and placed them on the settee.

Trevor comes inside first and hastily removes his coat before taking to the wheel. "Thanks, Mr. Holmes. Could you hang this in the shower room, while I make sure we don't drift? Thanks. Do you think Doctor Watson'll mind, if I drive?"

Usually, Watson would not. However, today he is not himself. I advise Trevor to ask him. "Where is Watson?"

"Trying to shake off the worst of the water, before he comes in. He's under the awning, at the back door. Not to sound rude, but when did he last have his fans checked?"

I have no idea and say so. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, because I was thinking that he might feel as though he needs to cough or sneeze if he felt that he had something restricting his airflow - he thinks and feels like a human, after all. Perhaps he has a clogged fan. It might explain his flushed cheeks, as well - even in the rain, he looked hot."

Why have I failed to notice? Poor Watson! Have I truly been so neglectful? "To be honest, his body is usually hidden beneath his coat. I suppose that he feels naked without it."

He nods. "Yes, I can understand that."

"I am not even sure that I know where his fans are located," I confess, feeling that I have let him down.

Watson is still dripping when he steps inside. "I apologise about the wet carpet, Mr. Trevor. Huh."

"It's OK, Watson. Not your fault. My coat and trousers are soaked, too. The robots'll have to give the boat a good clean, that's all."

"Huh. I suppose so."

The strange sounds that I took to be snorts would indeed appear to indicate something else entirely. They are becoming more frequent, for one thing.

"Watson, do sit down," I urge him.

"But I am wet!"

"So am I," Trevor retorts. "This is my boat! If it's OK for me to get water everywhere, I'm hardly going to complain if you do. Mr. Holmes is right - you should sit down."

He positions one of the rugs upon the settee to take the worst of the water first, but he does sit down. As I take a seat beside him, I notice that his clickings and whirrings appear to sound louder than usual.

"Remove your coat," I instruct him. "I shall hang it up in the shower room, with Trevor's."

He argues at first, but complies when I remind him that it is the item of clothing that is doing the majority of the dripping.

Now, somehow, I have to get him to permit me to have a look at him.

"Holmes," Victor calls, pulling me from my reverie. "How close am I to the bank? This storm definitely has come inland from the sea - it's pushing the tide with it."

I turn to take a look, kneeling on the settee and gripping its back with my hands. Only now, I notice that we are rolling considerably more than we had been and wish that I had not had quite so much lunch. Best not think about it; what is our position?

"We are all right, on this side, as long as we drift no further," I respond. "The boat is just brushing the reeds furthest from the bank."

"Then we need to be further out. That means fighting the current. Hold on."

I tighten my grip on the settee and slam my eyes shut. This journey is not as enjoyable as the previous had been.

"There," Trevor breathes after a long moment. "That's better. Hopefully, we won't meet any holidaymakers coming the other way - they won't be nearly as experienced and are likely to weave with the currents. Are you both all right?"

I force myself to swallow and draw a deep breath. "Yes."

"Watson, there's some chamomile tea in the cupboard above the kettle," our friend announces. "There might be a packet of ginger teabags, as well. Do you think you could make Mr. Holmes something?"

I touch the compudroid's arm and stand carefully, trying not to permit my legs to tremble. If Watson is unwell, I should prefer that he rest. "I shall do it. Would you like anything, Trevor?"

"Not while I'm driving, thanks. We'll be home, soon."

There is something soothing and familiar about making tea. Watson often does it, but I have had to fend for myself much more often in this era than I did in my own (and Watson has coached me in some of the simpler things - how to make an omelette, for example, or a hot drink. My Boswell would no doubt be surprised at how well I can manage - I could not even make toast, in our day!).

The ginger tea certainly does help and I decide to stand beside Trevor, watching his progress. "How much further?" I enquire, watching the waving reeds and willows as 'Swallows' battles past them.

"At this rate, another fifteen to twenty minutes. The currents are strong and this wind doesn't help either; if we were going downriver, we'd be back by now."

"Is there anything that I can do?"

"Not at the moment, but if you and Doctor Watson could toss the ropes to the robots, once we're inside the boathouse, that'd be a huge help."

I nod and pat his shoulder.

"I've been out in storms worse than this," he assures me. "We'll be OK. Just be glad we aren't nearer the coast."

I think he means to say that I should keep my chin up. He is right; I myself have experienced a storm or two at sea and they were indeed much worse than this. However, this boat is smaller and I can feel every wave - I suppose that I should be glad that they are no bigger.


	5. Wild Weather

As we round a bend, a bolt of lighting splits the leaden sky before us, striking an old oak tree in the field to the right and scattering a flock of corvids in a panic.

"Huh! Oh. The storm is worsening," notes the compudroid. He sounds worried.

I pat his shoulder as I approach his side. "Are you all right?"

He turns his head to meet my gaze and I note that he looks far from well. His cheeks are still flushed, while the rest of his face - particularly the skin (for want of a better word) surrounding the mouth - is an unhealthy pallor. He looks as if he is gasping for breath, as well - his mouth is partly open, with the lips trembling.

"I... I am not feeling well. I feel... I think I am tired."

There is no point in asking him what he feels like. Robots are not supposed to feel pain or discomfort and thus he is not likely to be able to understand (much less put into words) quite what he feels.

I pat his shoulder. "Do you want to turn yourself off, for now?"

He shakes his head and then groans, turning to lean forward so that his head is hanging just above his parted legs. And then he makes a peculiar noise, which sounds something like a gasp or a whimper.

"Watson?"

"I feel so strange," he groans.

"Turn yourself off, for a moment," I advise him. "How I wish that I could, when I feel unwell!"

He shakes his head and leans forward again with another of those strange sounds.

"Can you describe the way that you feel to me?" I ask, beginning to fear that there could be internal damage being done.

"I feel... 'dizzy', I think... Huh-huh! It is almost as if I know not where the floor is... Huh-huh..."

This said, a tremor goes through him and his body jerks forward, almost as if he is trying to vomit. Oh. That is not possible, surely? Robots do not have a stomach or oesophagus, so how could a robot possibly feel the urge to be sick?

"Holmes..."

I hold his hand, knowing not what else to do. "All right, Watson. All right. Calm down. You are trying to be sick because you are scared, but nothing is going to come of it. Do calm down."

He straightens slowly. "I am so embarrassed."

With a reassuring smile, I pat his back. "There is no need. I was not feeling terribly well, either, until I had a soothing drink; I never have been very good on rough water."

He again tries to be sick, his body lurching forward while his mouth parts. Ugh! Watching him is making my own stomach protest.

"If this is what you feel like, when your digestion is upset, I can see why you hate it so much. It is horrible!"

At least he is not in any danger of making a mess - I find the threat of humiliation far worse than the horrible feeling in my head and stomach. I rather envy him.

"Try to think about something else," I advise.

"How?" he gasps.

"We're nearly home," Trevor announces. "Not much further, now."

I pat Watson's shoulder. "Nearly there, old fellow."

He nods, his eyes closing, while his workings continue to click and whirr loudly. "I am so sorry."

"When we get you indoors, I must have a good look at you," I tell him firmly. "I do believe that you must be in need of a service, if you are not entirely overdue."

"But... Huh! Huh-huh! We agreed..."

"You have grown worse, since we made that agreement. Surely you know that to be so. If you insist on continuing to run in your current condition, lasting damage might be done. As your friend, I urge you..."

He groans and then coughs into his fist. "Oh! All - huh! - all right, Holmes. Do as you will."

I pat his shoulder again. "Good fellow. Have no fear; we shall soon put you right. Try to relax and to empty your mind."

Despite Trevor's assurance of our approaching his home, the minutes drag by like hours. Unable to do anything else, I remain at Watson's side and watch the banks, trees and reeds crawl by on either side of us while the boat rocks horribly.

At last, the boathouse becomes visible when we round another bend. Thank God!

"The water will be calmer inside, once I've shut the doors," Trevor tells me. "Wait until I have the boat steady, before you go out on deck. I don't want you to fall in - especially not between the boat and the moorings; you could be crushed."

I agree to wait with Watson until he gives the word and cross my legs, leaning back in a languid manner.

Watson casts me an appraising glance. "All right, old boy?"

I nod and give him a tight smile. Do be quiet, Watson - I do not only ever sit like this when I want to stretch my legs.

"How are you both feeling?" Trevor asks without turning his head.

"I feel horrible," Watson admits. "But not quite as bad, now that I know that it is only the part of me which thinks that it is human, reacting as a human would."

I touch his arm sympathetically. Poor Watson!

"Doctor Watson, when were your fans last cleaned?" Trevor asks. "I wonder if you feel like you've got a bit of a cold because you can't breathe properly."

He shudders and raises his fist to his mouth. "Attishoo! Attishoo! Oh. That is rather a personal question, Mr. Trevor."

"Well, I'm sorry, but I know a few things about computers and robots. I've never met such an incredible and impressive robot as you, of course, but... well... If you react in the same way as a human, your symptoms must be caused by something... similar to a human condition. A blocked or faulty fan would make you hot - and you look hot - and it would make you want to try to clear it; most living things would cough and sneeze, if they were unable to breathe properly."

He nods. "Your theory sounds quite likely," he admits, with a round of coughing.

"Where are your fans located?" I enquire.

He frowns at me indignantly. "Really, Holmes! I do not ask you where parts of your anatomy are located."

"You have no need to do so," I retort with a chuckle. "You know the human anatomy as well as I do, if not better."

He runs his eyes over me again, causing my ears to feel hot. I believe I know what it is that he is thinking.

"You do realise that I can be just as personal, I believe," says he in an angry whisper, casting a pointed glance toward my abdomen. "You look so dreadfully uncomfortable..."

I resist the temptation to follow his gaze and instead glare into his face. "Good for you," I retort with a soft growl. "You dare, Watson. As it happens, you are incorrect - I am not uncomfortable."

He shakes his head, casts Trevor a furtive glance, and gives me another appraisal. No doubt, he knows not whether he should believe me or no.

If he decides to embarrass me again, he will regret it. I narrow my eyes in warning at him.

"Your fans," I repeat impatiently. "Where are they?"

He blushes. "They are... behind me. Just above my... hips."

"You could probably do with an outfit that will permit them to breathe," I remark. "We shall worry about that later - one thing at a time. Your fans; can I have a look at them?"

"Here? Now? Like this?" he yelps, wrapping his arms about himself.

"It would be safer to look at them when he is off, Mr. Holmes," Trevor tells me. "And less uncomfortable for our friend, I'm sure."

"You are right, of course," I reply, watching my robotic companion anxiously.

Trevor clears his throat. "I've got some compressed air, back at the house. That should do the trick, until he gets his service. A bit of first aid, before he can see a doctor, as it were."

"Quite so. Thank you, Mr. Trevor," I pat Watson's shoulder. "There you are, old fellow - you are going to be all right."

He nods. "Tha... Thank you."

I dearly wish that I knew more about robots and computers. How I wish to be able to do something for him - to ease his discomfort, at the very least. He always knows what I need, when I am unwell.

"Mr. Holmes, " Trevor calls me from my thoughts. "We are safely inside. Wait for the water to settle down and then, if you'd go up on deck, perhaps you could toss the ropes to my waiting robots. They're going to escort us back to the house with umbrellas, so that we don't get too wet."

Watson casts me a questioning glance. "Will you be all right?"

I nod and address him with a reassuring smile. "Perfectly. The house robots will see that I am all right. Stay here and try to keep quiet and still."

"Well... all right, Holmes."

I go to the French windows and watch the water settle. Just as Trevor said, there are robots patiently waiting at the hitching posts and watching us. Unlike Watson, they show no emotional responses - no concern, anxiety or anything at all. There is no fidgeting or folding of arms and no tapping of feet. It seems strange to see them so still - I have grown accustomed to my robotic friend.

Once the boat has been securely hitched at the posts, the robots assist Watson in the walk back to the house as instructed by Trevor, while we humans share an umbrella and make our own way, arm in arm, battling against the gale and driving rain.

"The weather can change quite suddenly, in Norfolk," Trevor remarks, raising his voice over the wild cries of nature. "It seems to have its own weather systems - the flatness of the land, perhaps. Being so close to the coast must be another factor. Oh, well, the storm will soon blow itself out or move on. I'm sure it'll warm up, once the rain stops and the wind dies down."

I hope so. "Does it often rain here?" I enquire, as he opens the back door and gestures for me to enter ahead of him.

"Oh, not frequently," says he, while he follows me inside. "We are more likely to get sudden storms than incessant rain. Personally, I prefer that to days of drizzle."

I might be inclined to agree, were I not currently freezing cold and dripping wet.

"I'll show you to the shower room," my friend offers. "Or would you prefer a bath? Have you ever had a shower before?"

"May I take those wet garments?" a voice asks from behind me, causing me to turn.

"Ah! Mr. Holmes, this is Jeeves, my butler. This robot has served my family for three generations."

The robot bows and takes my wet coat and hat. "One of the service robots will clean your shoes, sir. Leave them by the door."

"Thank you. My friend, Watson, the Yard-issue compudroid..."

"The Scotland Yard Compudroid, model 7, is in hall, where it is cooler," says he. "It is overheating."

I thank him a second time, ignoring the manner in which Jeeves has decided to speak of Watson as if he were an item of furniture (for the time being) and hurry to my companion's side. I want to put him to rights before I even consider tending to myself - I am not going to suffer permanent damage if I do not immediately remove my wet socks, or take a warming bath. Watson, on the other hand, is badly in need of care and that scares me - never before has the thought occurred to me that his wellbeing might need consideration.


	6. Out of the Storm

Watson is not the slightest bit enthusiastic about being given a quick service by Trevor and I, now that we have the opportunity to do so. He argues that I know not what I am doing (which, I suppose, is not as far from the truth as I would like it to be) and that Trevor is a stranger to him and that, in that case, for our host to look at his workings would be an invasion of privacy. I feel that he is being ridiculous and tell him as much.

"Victor Trevor is my friend," I tell the robot firmly. "And we are his guests. Not only is your behaviour unjust, it is absolutely disgraceful. Now, I suggest that you turn yourself off and permit us to have a look at you."

He attempts to back himself closer to the wall behind him.

"Watson, I have not the patience for this nonsense. If we continue to fight you like this, we are both going to catch cold, standing about as we are in wet clothing. Now, I beg of you, trust me - I shall see that your civil rights are not breached."

The robot acquiesces (very grudgingly) and switches himself off. Thank goodness for that! Now we can finally get to work.

"You certainly know how to make your friend listen," Trevor notes, as he makes a start on one of the fan covers to Watson's back. "I must say I'm impressed - I was starting to think he'd never back down."

"He never would," I reply. "Not if he thought that he could get away with it. But he hates to watch a friend suffer and so I knew that he would put our health before his own feelings."

Trevor nods. "Clearly a good friend to have. I've got this fan uncovered now, Mr. Holmes. Could you take this screwdriver from me and pass me the can of condensed air?"

"What is the fan like?" I enquire.

He shakes his head. "Full of dust, fibres - probably from his coat - and goodness knows what else. It's no wonder he was feeling so ill. But this should do the trick. Can you get the other cover off?"

I comply promptly and then watch my friend work. He is happy to demonstrate the procedure to me, so that I shall be able to give my companion the same treatment at home. Should he protest, I can always argue that it is no different to him giving me a bath, when I was suffering from exposure to cold and ailing as a result. Not that I am going to mention the occasion to our new friend.

Watson sighs and opens his eyes with a blink when I press his power button. He then draws a deep breath and releases it slowly.

"Does that feel better?" Trevor asks.

He nods and beams a smile. "Very much. Thank you. Now all that I need is some oil. I am sure that my overheating has reduced the lubrication to my insides. That is, I am thirsty."

"How do I give it to you?"

"In a cup, please," says he in a perfectly serious tone. "A disposable one would probably be best. At home, I have my own cup."

This is news to me, but Watson has always had the run of the kitchen since he commandeered it upon his move to Baker Street.

"Let me just show Mr. Holmes where the bathroom is and give him a chance to get out of his cold, wet clothes," Trevor requests. "Unless... Jeeves, could you please show Mr. Holmes into the guest bathroom - not the shower room - and fetch him a change of clothes from his room? Thanks. Come with me, Doctor Watson."

I thank our host, urge him not to forget his own requirements and then follow the butler bot upstairs. I shall indeed be glad to warm up and a hot bath would be like a gift from Heaven.

The bathroom is grand and quite traditional, with a large, roll-top bath which I can easily stretch myself out in. I do not remember confirming that I have not used a modern shower before, but perhaps Trevor thought that I might require more assistance with the controls than I would be comfortable in requesting - which is likely correct. I really should thank him for his thoughtfulness.

Further exploration of the room brings to light a lavatory, which is situated behind a partition. I approve of this - it is almost as if it were in a separate room, as would have been the case in my day. There is also some sort of a heater in the room, on the feature wall, which I immediately turn up. Ah! Much better! Aside from the sound of the howling wind and the rain hurling itself upon the windows, this room is quite cosy now.

While I am removing my clothes, Jeeves steps inside the room (clearly, nobody has ever thought to program respect for privacy into a robot) with a fresh suit, shirt and undergarments - quite impressive, I suppose, seeing as he has probably never before seen Victorian-styled underthings (I know from experience that they are unusual and difficult to come by). With my back to him, I hasten to pull a towel about myself.

"Is this everything, sir?"

I request for him to bring in my slippers and begin to run the bath. Once I have all that I require, I shall securely lock the door before removing the remainder of my clothes.

When I finally slip into the bath, having added a substance called 'bubble bath' (a novelty for me, as I usually use bath salts when I am at home) to the water, it feels wonderful! Warm, soothing... good! The scent of eucalyptus and mint makes me feel much more awake and clear of mind.

Watson is the first to greet me, when I emerge from the bathroom. He tuts when he sees that I am still drying my hair with a towel, but I insist that - aside from the damp hair - I am quite dry and warm.

"Then you feel better, now, old boy?" he asks.

"Very much, yes. And our host?"

Watson nods. "Oh, he bathes much faster than you do. He is already downstairs. He was going to ask one of his servant bots to wait for you, but I insisted. But how are you?"

Here is the Watson that I know! I smile. "I can assure you that I am much better for a hot bath. It was just what I needed."

"Good! Dry your hair, then, and we shall rejoin Mr. Trevor."

We find Trevor in the sitting room, with the fire lit and the curtains drawn. The sound of the weather does not seem to be as loud as it was while I was in the bathroom.

Trevor smiles and urges us to sit down.

"Did you enjoy your bath, Mr. Holmes? I thought that you might find it easier - and more relaxing - than a shower."

I confirm that he is correct while I make myself comfortable. The sitting room is cosily furnished and delightfully warm.

"I was going to give you a tour. Would you like one now, before dinner?"

This might be a good idea. In my day, the detail on the doors of each room would provide indication enough of the function of the room behind - in a modern building, doors tend to be identical. I would not want to become lost.

Our new friend is happy to show Watson and I around, ensuring that we both know where everything is. We begin at the top of the house and work our way down again.

The robot expresses a keen interest in the vast library and so we step inside. Fiction takes up approximately a quarter of the book collection, while more than half of the shelves are taken up with forensic science and engineering. Yes, this collection also interests me.

"You're welcome to borrow a book or two," Trevor tells us. "But I've got more to show you; do you like films?"

"What sort of films?" I enquire carefully. Some of the things that Lestrade has subjected me to are enough to make me want to say that I most certainly do not.

Trevor chuckles and leads us to a room just down the passage from the library. It is just like an old-fashioned cinema! To one side is a bar, complete with snack making devices and an electronic larder. The rest of the room is filled with leather theatre chairs, with an impressive screen to the very front.

"I do have one or two classics," our friend says, modestly. "To Kill a Mocking Bird, Arsenic and Old Lace, War and Peace, numerous works of Dickens... Every film that Bogart ever starred in..."

"I rather like the sound of Arsenic and Old Lace," I admit. "What is it like?"

He chuckles again. "It's a comedy about two nice old ladies that kill people. But I think To Kill a Mocking Bird might be more to your taste. Perhaps we could watch both, while you are here, and then you can decide for yourself. You might also like the Enforcer."

That sounds like a good idea and I say so. With this agreed, we leave the cinema and begin to make our way towards the sitting room. I am told that dinner will soon be served.

Upon our return to the warm and comfortable sitting room, I note that the sounds of the storm are becoming quieter, with fewer crashes of thunder.

"It will probably rain for most of the night," predicts Trevor. "But the weather should be fine, tomorrow. Doctor Watson can go fishing to his heart's content and you can go riding. I might come with you, actually - it's been quite a while since I went riding on horseback."

Not as long as it has been for me, I am willing to bet.

Dinner is even better than lunch. Again, Trevor has clearly done his research, for the starter is a dish of oysters apiece (my favourite), served with a glass of white wine; which is followed by pheasant and a duck pie (game birds are another of my preferences), which is served with a glass of red wine and finished off with a cheeseboard, brandy and fruit. All perfect choices!

When we have finished our dinners, Trevor and I take our brandies and go with Watson into the cinema. I have never before watched a film in a modern cinema and I cannot help but be interested. Watson seems just as intrigued, though he is not very enthusiastic about the choice of film. Apparently, he is of the opinion that I only hold an interest in unpleasantness, which is not entirely true - I have, after all, sat through Calamity Jane and My Fair Lady (without falling asleep), at Lestrade's.

Trevor has recommended the Enforcer, a Bogart film. It proves to be a good choice, as it is about the early days of gang crime in America and the subsequent investigative work. I know not quite how accurate it is, but it is both interesting and entertaining, so I shall simply have to do some research of my own, later, so as to satisfy my roused curiosity.

When the film ends, Watson complains of feeling weary and excuses himself to the charging room, into which his charging station has already been installed. He declines the offer of being shown the way a second time by our host, insisting rather proudly that he knows the way. With that, he bids us both a somewhat brusque good night and walks away.

"I do apologise for my friend, Trevor. I have never known him to behave in such a manner, before."

Trevor pats my arm. It's all right. He's been feeling ill and he's tired; he'll probably be his old self, tomorrow. Now, what about you? Do you want to sleep?"

How should I answer? I am tired, but I doubt that I could sleep - when I have nothing to occupy my mind with, my thoughts return to my absent friend, the real Doctor Watson, and thus sleep does not come easily.

"Not particularly."

"Well... do you play snooker? We've got a games room, just off from the sitting room. Actually, we've got an antique billiard table, but I don't know how it's played."

I do. my Boswell and I have played, once or twice, in our younger days - it was Watson who took it upon himself to teach me and, for some reason, I have held on to the memories of those games.

"I believe I remember the rules, should you desire to learn."

It would appear that Trevor would like nothing more. That settled, we make our way to the games room.


End file.
